


!@$^%$#.

by fromhilltovale



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Suicidal Tendencies, look away im reuploading, prompto feels things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:27:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23372410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromhilltovale/pseuds/fromhilltovale
Summary: He would become what he was created to do.To break and crack under the pressure of the king’s blade.
Kudos: 2





	!@$^%$#.

**Author's Note:**

> reuploaded bc i liked this piece

!@$^%$#.

Prompto breathed. His skin felt like a glass container. So many cracks. Too many chips. He was going to break. He knew. He would break in this man’s hands. This daemon shaped as a man. This daemon shaped like a man with a shattered soul. The shattered soul, its pieces lost into the waves of the vast ocean of madness. Yes. prompto was going to break. 

He would become what he was created to do. To break and crack under the pressure of the king’s blade. He would lose what he was never meant to have. He would lose the sense he had created by himself with his idiocy and hopelessness. The pain would be swift at least. The swift pain was something he wished but knew he would not deserve. The pain he did deserve was long and slow. He deserved to be bled dry and left to waste away into nothing but dust. He deserved to be turned into the only thing he was created to be. And he will. 

His wrists hurt. But not because of his own self this time. They’ve been hung up. But why? Ah. the man. That’s right, the daemon. The daemon shaped like a man. The daemon shaped like a man with a shattered s-- “Prompto.”

Prompto. 

How long has he carried that name on his shoulders. On his head like that was his real name. “Prompto.” Again. Who was he. A glass container. Useless. Worthless. Because a container with cracks and chips can hold nothing but dust. He cannot be used. 

He cannot be trusted.

At night. In the early mornings, before the sun graces the land with her warmth. Warmth that prompto does not deserve. He feels unstoppable. He feels stringless. No longer a marionette. Run into the night, they whisper. Nothing is stopping you, to just run and keep running. And sometimes he finds himself at the door. Sometimes he comes to, with a hand on the handle. The handle turned, lock unclicked. Sometimes he is outside. Bare feet kissing the moist dirt. Boots soaked in the ocean’s hushing, rushing shore. His sleep pants soaked to his waist by the flowing rivers under the bridge. The wind would whisper into his hair. It felt like a soft memory he forced away from himself. It would whisper to run away with it. Let us be one, let us become nothing but a breeze to others. 

Then all he would see it red. Red. red. Red. and it would hurt. Sometimes. Sometimes. Yes. it would sting. Other times it would feel like fire licking at his skin. Sometimes. Not all the time. But sometimes. It would be as if this was what he was meant to do all along. Like he was made for this. Yes. the red would come. And he was made for it. 

When he would crack. When he would chip. When his glass container would crack and chip. The red would come. Yes. the red would come like a flow of a river. Of the push and pull of the ocean. Like the shifting dirt underneath his bare feet. It’s what he was made for. It’s what he was made for. It’s what he was

“Prompto.”

His name. No. a name. Just a name that the one from that soft memory he forced away from himself gave him. A name to be called instead of !@#$%^%$#. Yes. instead of !@#$%^%$#. He can’t remember. It’s on his wrist. The wrist where the red never comes out of. No matter how much he’s tried. He doesn’t dare to look. Doesn’t dare to read it. Doesn’t dare to ever speak the combination of the characters out loud. !@$^%$#.”Prompto.” !@$^%$#. !@$^%$#. “Prompto.” His mind hurts. 

He needed to see the red again. It’s what he was made for. But he knew the next time he saw red. It wouldn’t be from his own hand. It won’t be when he followed their whispers. It wouldn’t be when the wind whispered and caressed his hair. 

He will see the red rise like a thousand pinpricks all at once. He will see red because that was what he was made for. He will see red. He will become what he was created to do. To break and crack under the pressure of the king’s blade.

“PROMPTO!”


End file.
